All The King's Horses
by Fraternal-Angst
Summary: When faith, betrayal, sin and lust collide, who will survive in the desert?
1. Chosen One

All the King's Horses  
  
Authors: Fraternal Angst (LadyofTruths and Holly Graham)  
  
Authors' Note: The characters used within this story that belong to Thomas Harris are being used for strictly entertainment purposes and no money is being made from this story. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
Chapter One: Chosen One  
  
It was a dreary morning in Seattle, Washington. Rain collected into dirty puddles over the training field behind the FBI field office. A lithe young man made his third trip around the circular track, trying his best to ignore the prickle of the rain as it hit his face and dripped down his thick neck, stinging his hot skin. A look of pure determination was etched into his square face; he was breathing hard, the grip on his joggers had worn itself thin, making his sprint slippery and uneven.  
  
"Cartwright!" A strong voice echoed from the far side of the track. A stocky man holding an umbrella waved the young man down. "Bexter wants to see you in his office ASAP."  
  
Dallas Cartwright nodded and headed off the track to wipe down with his sweat towel, though it was pointless, he was drenched from the rain. He guzzled at the water bottle he had left on one of the benches and headed for the covered pavement that ran from the gym to the towering FBI building and would ultimately take him to Behavioral Science inside. Several young women clad in tight Spandex shorts and tops passed by and greeted him with a smile and several winks. He nodded amusedly and continued on despite the fact he would much rather turn around and follow the women back into the gym. But a call from SAC Ian Bexter was high priority. As a rookie, it could mean anything: paperwork, surveillance, or if he was lucky, a field assignment.  
  
The electronic doors opened to greet him with a wave of coolness; the air- conditioning would be turned to maximum speed and minimum temperate every day, despite the turning seasons. Cartwright, with his towel hung around his neck and carrying his water bottle, shuddered inwardly, wishing he'd brought a change of clothes with him.  
  
"Dallas! Hey man! I heard Bexter called you in. What's with that?" Ryan Madison playfully tugged at his friend's shoulder.  
  
"I'm not sure. Listen, I'm in a rush. You wanna head out for a beer tonight? Find some lucky girl to take home?" Cartwright turned and walked backward as he called to his friend walking the opposite direction down the hall.  
  
"Yeah, sure," Madison called back over his shoulder. "Meet you at eight."  
  
Cartwright turned back around and barely avoided running right smack into an open door.  
  
"Shit," he muttered as he danced sideways to skirt the door.  
  
He nodded slightly to the secretary that advanced through the door, laden with reports, as she let it swing closed behind her. The middle aged woman glanced up and did a double take, smiling shyly at him. As he continued on down the hall, Cartwright couldn't help but grin to himself. He knew he was attractive, it was one of his many gifts. He was over six feet three inches tall, with dark black hair and piercing blue eyes. He was well built and his olive skin held a tan very nicely. In addition to his striking good looks, Cartwright had also learned early on that he had a knack for charm and making people feel good about themselves. It was these qualities that made Cartwright widely liked by people.  
  
Cartwright walked briskly into the office of Behavioral Science and noted the usual bustle that permeated the department. He weaved his way through rows of desks to Chief Bexter's office door, which was slightly ajar. Cartwright rapped his knuckles firmly against the door as he pushed it open and peered in.  
  
Section Chief Ian Bexter, 48, was a short balding Caucasian man who enjoyed his evening wind downs with beer after beer, which was pronounced by his hefty belly. As Cartwright entered, his head was bent studiously over some reports spread out on his expansive desk, the fluorescent lighting gleaming off his head. He glanced up, his muddy brown eyes blinking.  
  
"Ah Cartwright," Bexter muttered and gestured toward a chair in front of his desk. "Please, sit down."  
  
Cartwright lowered his long frame down into the chair and kept his back rigid and straight against it. Rain water dripped slowly from his hair and his clothing, puddling on the carpet under the chair. Cartwright continued to towel himself off as best he could but his towel was fairly saturated. He waited for Bexter to speak again.  
  
Bexter sighed heavily and eyed Cartwright with what seemed to be mixture of anger and sympathy, as one might look at a child who has been caught in a dreadful sin and is about to pass down judgment.  
  
"Alright Cartwright," Bexter said. "Let's get to it. I called you in here to discuss the possibility of a 'job' with you."  
  
"A job sir?" Cartwright asked, curious.  
  
"Indeed," Bexter nodded slowly. "Listen an assignment's come up and I thought of you."  
  
Cartwright beamed inwardly. 'At last,' he thought, 'a chance to prove myself. Finally, real detective work, no more analyzing data bullshit.'  
  
Bexter leaned his bulky frame back into his chair and continued to eye Cartwright. Cartwright did not mind the appraisal, it was often a tactic used by the higher-ups at the Bureau as a means of sensing any fear and or intimidation their scrutiny might cause in a rookie. In his case, there was none, he merely gazed back calmly at his superior, emotionless. Finally satisfied, Bexter nodded and leaned forward again, his thick arms laid on the desk.  
  
"First let me start off by saying that the main reason you were chosen for this case is your personality and easy going manner. You're nice, polite, charming, and you have a talent for getting close to people because of all that," Bexter sighed again and held up his right forefinger for emphasis. "Now listen carefully Cartwright; this assignment calls for some shall we say unpleasant activities."  
  
Cartwright was immensely intrigued. 'Unpleasant activities?' he thought. 'How cool!'  
  
Being a rookie, Cartwright had merely participated in mundane activities during the three months of his employment with the FBI. He was ready for some excitement. He was ready to prove his worthiness to be here. He was ready to catch some 'bad guys.'  
  
"What sort of unpleasant activities, sir?" Cartwright asked evenly, not wanting to come across as either too excited or scared. He did not want to lose this assignment.  
  
"I'll get to that in a moment Cartwright," Bexter grunted. "We've been handed a case by Violent Crimes because they think it now falls under our heading. For the last four years or so, they've been investigating a slew of missing people and kidnapping cases from all over the state, mostly young women, early 20's. Now they're thinking the majority of the cases are connected.  
  
"An anonymous tip led them to an isolated area immediately east of Chelan in the Cascade Mountains. At first glance it appears to be some sort of compound. It's similar to the Branch Davidian compound down in Waco, surrounded by a large wall running the perimeter, you remember right? Two agents attempted to contact the individuals within the compound and was denied access. The individual the agents spoke with at the gate said they are a community of law abiding citizens but refused the agents access to the compound without good reason. Without a warrant the compound cannot be searched but no judge will grant a warrant without probable cause so basically we cannot get into the compound to search it unless the residents will let us in, which they won't." Bexter paused for breath.  
  
"The Bureau thinks the missing young women are being held within the compound?" Cartwright asked.  
  
"Not sure," Bexter replied and leaned back in his chair again, his hands laced across his vast belly. "The agents that initially went to the compound requesting access saw a young woman matching one of missing women's descriptions but they couldn't be sure it was her. And she didn't signal to them that she was being held against her will or anything. But subsequent covert surveillance of the compound produced an interesting find. Apparently a former patient of Dr. Hannibal Lecter resides there and appears to be the self proclaimed leader of the enclosed community." Bexter paused for dramatic effect, eyeing Cartwright. "After Lecter's incarceration, despite state laws protecting doctor-patient privilege, his patient files were purged by an unknown source and leaked to the media. This particular patient confided to Dr. Lecter that he had..." Bexter flipped through some papers until he found the one he needed. "...and I quote, 'cannibalistic tendencies.' He was a priest at the time and the Catholic Church sent him to Lecter for counseling." He chuckled. "Interesting eh? A budding cannibal seeking help from a real cannibal."  
  
Cartwright took a deep breath, pondering the words. He, along with every other person in the world had been bombarded a few years ago by images and stories of Hannibal Lecter after his bloody escape from custody in Memphis. With regards to Lecter, fact and fantasy had become blurred so badly by the media that he was almost a mythological figure, a mythological figure that remained on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted Persons list. Cartwright smiled inwardly.  
  
'Imagine if Lecter is at the compound or has contact with them,' he thought. 'Imagine if I am the one who captures him. I'd be famous. The book deal alone would make me rich.'  
  
Cartwright looked at Bexter who had been watching him silently, watching the wheels of his brain spin in contemplation. Bexter knew the young rookie was eager to prove himself and thought very highly of himself. That was another reason he had been chosen for this assignment. It would take a particular type of person to do what would be required in this case, the type of person who would do anything in the hopes of flattering recognition when the case was done.  
  
"So Cartwright," Bexter continued. "Basically the assignment calls for an agent to work at infiltrating the compound to determine if there are any illegal activities occurring. But most importantly, the assignment is to determine if Lecter's former patient has any contact at all with Lecter or knows where he is. That would require one to become extremely close to the man." Bexter passed a black and white surveillance photograph from the compound across the desk to Cartwright.  
  
The photo showed an older, Caucasian man, lean yet muscular and Cartwright could tell even from the grainy photo that the man seemed to carry himself with an air of regality.  
  
"His name's Shane McNally. According to his patient records he often discussed with Lecter his 'dream' of creating his own little community; a private, secret community where he and his followers could worship in private the way they saw fit with no government interference. He never came right out and said it would be a cannibal cult, but that seems to be the indication."  
  
Cartwright's head popped up from the photo and regarded Bexter carefully. "I'm sorry sir, did you say a 'cannibal cult'?" He asked quietly.  
  
Bexter nodded. "You got it sport."  
  
Cartwright's mind raced and silence permeated the office as he thought.  
  
"But I've never heard of any religion that condoned cannibalism, especially the Catholics. In fact don't all religions classify it as an abomination?" Cartwright breathed.  
  
"Apparently McNally's background in Catholicism came to take on a twisted view with regards to human sacrifice because of several Bible passages that he claimed denoted God's blood lust," Bexter said. "It's completely detailed in the case file but only the agent who agrees to this assignment will have access to that information," he paused and looked directly at Cartwright. "I guess what I'm getting at Cartwright is this: the assignment to infiltrate a suspected cannibal cult is yours if you want it."  
  
Cartwright, stunned at the words 'cannibal cult' just sat and stared at his superior. He realized that if it was indeed a cannibal cult, in order to infiltrate it he'd have to participate with them in the act of consuming human beings. The very thought made his bile rise. But..on the other hand...the prospect of bringing down Lecter's former patient and possibly having a shot at Lecter himself would be worth the price no matter what the cost.  
  
"I'm your man, sir," Cartwright nodded his head.  
To be continued. Please review. 


	2. Fools Rush In

All the King's Horses

Chapter Two: Fools Rush In

Six months later 

Nightclubs smell like cheap sex: musty, tangy and doused in the stench of alcohol. Clarice Starling came to a similar conclusion as she sat in a corner booth waiting for her roommate to return with their raspberry vodkas. _Playerz_ was the closest thing to a Saturday night drinking blitz on their side of town. From experience, she knew it was best to stay within certain parameters when signing up for a nightly membership with the blackout brigade; a drunk will pay anything to get home.  

The club was moderately full for a Friday night, mostly populated by college students and teenagers well under the legal drinking age. At twenty-six, Clarice felt as though she was too old for the raging scene. On the dance floor young girls in short skirt and white tops glowed under the ultra-violet lights, their young bodies daring the males to keep up with them. Even though she'd never really been a partier, Clarice knew that she'd rather be at a restaurant, or better yet, at home. She sighed at the thought of her hackneyed, old lady attitude; the most excitement she felt these days was busting narcotics pushers, or maybe when she stood in as an expert witness on a trial. 

"You're only as old as you feel, Starling" Ardelia Mapp slid across the booth on the other side of the polished wood table, placing four drinks in front of them- two each.

Clarice snorted and reached for the palest glass "Is it that obvious?" 

"Oh yeah!" Ardelia grinned and tapped her feet to the thumping base.

"Well in that case, I _feel as though I'm here because my husband of twenty years left me for our next-door neighbor's teenage daughter." She scoffed, downing half of her glass in one mouthful. "Honestly Delia, don't you think we're a little beyond _this_?" She gestured over to a group of young men sitting a few tables across from them whistling and guzzling beer._

"We only graduated _three years ago. You may be over it __Miss FBI, but I'm sure as hell not." She winked at the table of young men, ignoring the disparaging comments from Clarice. _

On the social scene, Clarice had forever been tagged a killjoy. At the orphanage she had slept exactly at lights out, at college she studied two weeks before exams, and as professional, she'd work on the weekends if something came up. That's not to say she couldn't drink any man under the table, years of sipping out of Jack Daniels bottles had given her a steel gut. But she didn't drink for fun, she drank to get drunk and forget about the black and white standards she'd set for herself. If she was sober, she was usually bored.

"Great! Now look what you've attracted." Clarice groaned as two men started over toward their booth, victorious hunt splashed all over their drunken faces.

"Good evenin' ladies." The taller of the two slurred.

"Hi there." Ardelia smiled her 'come hither' smile and scooted over for them to sit next to her.

"Why are two gorgeous women sitting all alone in a club full of hungry bachelors?" The other stammered, his eyes wandering over Clarice's blouse. 

"Trying to stay off the menu." Clarice was seething, she didn't want to start the week of with an assault charge, but knew in all likelihood that if these thug didn't move on, she may be forced to run a violent rampage.   

"Speak for yaself girl" Ardelia squealed as she was pulled to her feet by the thick, Arian-featured man.  They headed off to the dance floor, leaving Clarice alone with _Mr. Gape and Drool._

"Looks like it's just you and me babe." He took Ardelia's seat opposing Clarice's and winked. "My names Jett." He leant in closer across the table. "And you would be?"

For a brief moment Clarice hit a blank. _A name. You need a name Starling. Then she smirked._

"Lee." She chucked into her glass as she took a final swig and moved the other full glass closer to her side of the table.

"Jett and Lee. Ain't that a funny coincidence" His slimy teeth appeared underneath a crooked smile.

"Isn't it just?" She smiled tightly, trying to remember if she could fit through the window in the rest rooms.

_Damn Ardelia! You'll pay for this._

"So Lee, what does a pretty girl like you like to do in her spare time?" He reached for Ardelia's stilled drink and stretched his legs underneath the table attempting to rub himself against her.

_Turn the bastard right off!_

" I'm an elementary school teacher. I love children. I hope to have many of my own one day." She replied through gritted teeth; an unpleasant image of herself floating about in a sundress surrounded by snotty, scabby second graders appeared in her head. _Jeeeesus!_  

"Kids…right." Jett ran a tanned hand through his spiky black hair; her plan seemed to be working, he looked like he was about to flee.

Or maybe not…

"How bout I get you another drink there Lee? Maybe you can educate me about a few things when I get back, eh?" He stood quickly, hitting his knees under the table. Clarice smirked. 

_Oh yes. I'll fucking educate you, asswipe!_

"Whatever." She replied neutrally. He was a perverted drunk; she didn't need him to be an aggressive one.

_I could run for it now_, she thought. But he'd probably catch her as she walked past the bar. Who the hell designed this club anyway? Certainly not a female!  She squirmed against the slippery leather. Maybe he'd see something more appealing on the way over. Clarice sighed imagined all the places she'd rather be: On the beach, horseback riding, at work, talking with Dr. Lecter…

_Uh oh! Not good. Back up!_

She took another sip, soon enough the vodka would numb her thoughts and she wouldn't have to deal with the consequences of thinking about things, about…_him. _

It had been three years since his escape in Memphis; roughly thirty-six months since he had sent her the letter, which she hadn't turned-in to forensics. It ate away at her for weeks, but she couldn't bring herself to show them; they'd taunt her with it, they'd bait her with his words and hold it against her for her entire career. Paul Krendler would make sure of that. He'd hated her ever since she beat him to Jame Gumb, a woman taking the credit for a man's job. He despised her. Unfortunately, they crossed paths frequently, he worked over at Justice now, and every time he'd see her he'd tell her with a look of hate in his eyes _" I'd fuck your country ass any day, Starling."_  She'd rather eat her own brain!

Reminded by the perverted egotism of the male populace, Clarice looked over to the bar to find her _friend, Jett. The beefy dark haired man was whispering into another woman's ear; she seemed as displeased as Clarice had been. It's marvelous how the felony juice can make you feel attractive. Jett though, well he didn't have much to work with.  _

"How bout a scotch babe?" Instead of sitting across from her, he slid in beside Clarice and handed her a glass of scotch, the pill she hadn't seen him slip in was still dissolving.

_Ok let's finish this, Starling___

Clarice moved in closer to Jett's warm chest and swung her legs over toward him, causing her skirt to ride up to mid-thigh. She felt him stiffen in his seat as he ran his finger over her collarbone, around her necklace and down her chest, tracing the V of her blouse…

"So…you were going to educate me?" He questioned, groaning as he caught a glimpse of some cleavage.

"There are too many people around for me to…demonstrate my knowledge." She nodded over to the swelling dace floor behind him. 

In the brief moment he took to look over his shoulder, Clarice switched the drinks, shifting the drugged glass next to his thick knuckles. 

"We should go back to my place." He returned her grin and looked back at her.

"Not before we finished our drinks." She shouted almost a little too eagerly and picked up her scotch, downing it without as much as a flinch.

"Right." He winked, doing the same to prove himself worthy.

She watched a moment and imagined his pupils staring to dilate. She couldn't help but smile as she saw the muscles in his cheeks fall lazy. "How about we start with a little pop quiz, _Jett_. Can you tell me how many years you'll spend paranoid about dropping the soap in the prison showers for drugging an FBI agent?" She raised her chin in victory. 

Jett started blinking frantically and shaking his head. Confused at first, and then dizzy, he managed to stutter his reply.  "Bitch!" 

"You better believe it." She stood, shifted her skirt back down over her knees and stepped over Jett's body as it began sinking under the table. Peeved by Ardelia's hasty disappearance, she didn't bother with a farewell. Clarice made a quick dash for the exit, hailed a cab, and headed for home.

*~*~*

Jack Crawford had never been fond of change. His office at Behavioral Science, Quantico looked the same as it had ten years ago, painted beige walls cluttered with posters, APB's and photographs. The linoleum floor where he sat in front of a filing cab    - pain, people respected him and looked up to him, he'd even heard that a few of the trainees had a crush on him. How amusing, he thought. Out of his breast pocket he pulled a small bottle of pills, since Bella had passed, time had not been a generous or comforting friend. Some days, the only thing that kept him going was knowing that he would sleep that night.

"Mr. Crawford, sir?" His secretary stood at the door, her black-framed bifocals made her look like a Stephen King creation. 

"Yes, Elaine." Crawford took his time standing, clutching for the side of his desk and wincing as his knees clicked back into their joints.

"You had a fax come through from the Seattle filed office. Ian Bexter sent it through your private line." The fuzzy haired women dropped the paper on his desk and retreated out of the room. Everyone knew Jack Crawford liked his privacy.

"Thank you." He managed before the door shut.

He sat down at his desk, sliding the folders and empty coffee cups out of his vision and read the short fax from Ian Bexter, a name he hadn't spoken for a considerable amount of time.

_Jack,_

_Sorry to rekindle our links on a work-related topic, it's been quite a while.  We've been following a case close to you and require some help. I'm sending a rookie to DC on an early flight tomorrow.  Dallas Cartwright will meet you for lunch at a time and place that suits you. He has your beeper number._

_This is important, Jack. It's to do with an agent of yours, Clarice Starling._

_I trust you'll make the time._

_Sincerely._

_Your old friend,_

_SAC Ian Bexter._

Crawford shut his eyes and deeply inhaled. _Clarice Starling_. Without a doubt the case close to him would be Dr. Hannibal Lecter. The name followed him around like a shadow. If he could ethically permit himself, he'd forget about Lecter and how he played with and changed Clarice. Crawford saw the same light in her eyes as he had seen in Lecter's. He couldn't shake off the thought that in some abstract form, Clarice Starling belonged the cannibal, and it was his entire fault. Things could have been different. She could have had a desk across from him in _their_ office. He remembered the day he called her in about Buffalo Bill, she was so young and ambitious…and beautiful, but it was her courage that stuck him. She was the energy that he needed, but now, he hardly ever sees her. She got shafted down the ranks, and he felt responsible. Perhaps now he had a chance to redeem himself, or at least see her again.

He crumpled the fax in his fist and opened his diary. He was free tomorrow at 1pm.

_~ tbc- thank you for your reviews~_

_H&I_


	3. Redemption

Chapter 3: Redemption  
  
Special Agent Dallas Cartwright, tired and disheveled, trudged into the small, anonymous café in downtown D.C. and waited just inside the entryway for his eyes to adjust to the dimness inside. He scanned the booths of the nearly empty café until they came to rest on the figure that must surely be Jack Crawford, head bent over his coffee mug, absently stirring the rich brown liquid inside, eyes staring but seeing nothing. Cartwright moved slowly over to the booth.  
  
"Chief Crawford?" He asked.  
  
Crawford blinked as he came out of his reverie, raised his head slowly, and observed the young man standing before him. He saw that the young agent was thin, almost painfully so, his black hair was dull and in need of a trim, his face had not seen a razor in several weeks, there were deep dark circles under his eyes, and the eyes themselves appeared glazed and lackluster. Crawford nodded dully at him.  
  
"Cartwright," he replied and gestured for the young man, who had begun to sway slightly on his feet, to sit down. "Please, have a seat."  
  
Cartwright lowered his frame into the booth, sighing. He rubbed his eyes tiredly before laying his arms on the table. He peered at Crawford and the two men regarded one another for a moment before a waitress ambled over to the table.  
  
"You guys ready to order?" she asked gruffly, pencil poised over her order pad.  
  
"I'll have the special," Crawford said as he handed the menu back to the waitress.  
  
"I'll have whatever he's having," Cartwright answered dully, not bothering to look up at the waitress.  
  
The waitress nodded as she finished writing and she left the table, leaving the two men alone again.  
  
"Do you even know what the special is?" Crawford asked.  
  
Cartwright shrugged as he gazed at the older man. "It doesn't matter. Food is food. I've come to learn to eat pretty much anything..." he trailed off and lowered his eyes.  
  
"Alright Cartwright," Crawford said. "Talk to me. What is this assignment you're on and what does it have to do with my Agent, Clarice Starling?"  
  
Cartwright leaned forward as he spoke slowly and evenly. "Living as a transient over the last six months I've had the opportunity to become rather close to the leader of a religious cult in Washington state. He has now asked me to join him and his group at their compound near Chelan in the Cascade Mountains." Cartwright paused as the waitress returned with his coffee.  
  
As she walked away, he gulped at the scalding liquid as if it was the only sustenance he'd had in days. Crawford supposed maybe it was if he'd been living as a homeless man. Cartwright drained the mug and licked his lips. Crawford waited patiently for him to continue.  
  
"Shane McNally, the leader of the group is a former patient of Dr. Hannibal Lecter," Cartwright continued quietly.  
  
At the mention of Lecter's name, Crawford's heart missed a beat and he had to remember to breathe. He'd been correct after all, the case did involve Lecter.  
  
"Essentially, it appears that McNally, a former Catholic priest, has formed his own cult based on his individual interpretation of several Bible passages." He paused again and looked blearily at Crawford. "Through conversations with McNally, I have determined that the cult practices the ritual of human sacrifice and cannibalism."  
  
Crawford nearly choked on the sip of coffee he had just taken. He coughed harshly and held his napkin to his mouth. Cartwright watched him disinterestedly. Crawford's fit passed and he looked at Cartwright incredulously.  
  
"Cannibalism?" Crawford sputtered. "A former patient of Lecter's? You're shittin' me?"  
  
Cartwright shook his head. "No sir. Trust me, I've had contact with this man for almost six months. Thanks to Lecter's patient files, I went in to the assignment knowing a lot of information about the man's past so I've managed to get him to trust me and manipulate a lot of information out of him. As I said, I've been living on the streets of Chelan as a transient. I bumped into McNally one day early on into my assignment when he came into town for supplies. I begged him for some money or food or anything and being a former priest, he had compassion on me, even fed me lunch that day. I told him I was 19 and had been living on the streets for two years after I ran away from an abusive home. I told him I had been raised Catholic but that I had serious doubts as to certain practices of Catholicism. McNally bought me a blanket and said he wanted to help me. He said he wanted to meet with me once a week to discuss my upbringing. He took me out to lunch once a week for the next six months and we talked for hours sometimes. I have gotten him to the point where he trusts me and he's ready for me to move into the compound."  
  
"But what does this have to do with Clarice Starling?" Crawford breathed.  
  
Cartwright blinked tiredly. "I believe that McNally may have a way of contacting Lecter. If I'm correct, then by using Starling we should be able to draw him out."  
  
"How?"  
  
"The plan is to use Agent Starling," Cartwright said softly and his deep blue eyes began to burn with excitement. "With your help we're going to lure her into developing a rapport with the cult leader, McNally. He's got a mild fixation with her right now because of her conversations with his former psychiatrist and I'm sure with some gentle persuasion from me I could get him to send her something proclaiming his interest in her. Naturally, being the good agent she is, she'll bring it directly to you in which case you advise her to write back to him and encourage him to contact her again. Her reason for doing so would be so that she can become closer to McNally and ultimately arrest him. The rapport between them will eventually lead her to come out to the compound. She'll think it's to document their activities and arrest McNally. While she's there, I'll find out if McNally knows how to contact Lecter and I'll have him do so claiming he has seduced Starling into joining the cult. I figure Lecter will either be excited by that fact or pissed off." Cartwright grinned. "Either way, Lecter'll come running to Clarice Starling. And then he'll be mine."  
  
Crawford leaned back in his seat and regarded the young agent. He could tell the man was ambitious, hell he'd seen enough rookies during his years with the Bureau to recognize the look, but there was something else about him that troubled Crawford. It was something he could not quite put his finger on. He was puzzling over what it might be when he remembered the man's statement to him early on that he had come to learn to eat pretty much 'anything.' And for Cartwright to have successfully infiltrated a cannibal cult that meant he must have demonstrated to the leader his willingness to partake of human flesh. Crawford's stomach churned at the thought.  
  
"Here we are," the waitress said as she laid steaming bowls of chili in front of the two men followed by a basket of warm bread. She picked up both their coffee mugs. "I'll refill these for ya."  
  
"Thank you," Crawford said numbly.  
  
Cartwright merely nodded as he dug into his bowl of chili. Crawford watched the young man as he wolfed down his food. He looked at his own bowl and realized he had completely lost his appetite.  
  
Crawford sighed heavily and turned his head to gaze out the window next to them. He watched cars roll down the street and people hurrying by with their busy lives and suddenly he hated himself and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He hated that young people gave their lives so willingly to the Bureau, only wanting to help people, and that the Bureau took full advantage of them by manipulating and using them while they were in the prime of their lives to get what was needed and then tossing them away after the assignment was done. Yes, Crawford hated his involvement in that process as well. He had used Clarice Starling and many would say he had taken the best of her and thrown the rest of her to the wolves. And Crawford was now inclined to agree with that.  
  
The waitress returned with full mugs of coffee. As he poured cream and sugar into his cup, Crawford regarded Agent Cartwright again, still all but inhaling his food. This young man was being used too, just as Starling had been. This young man, because of his ambition and desire to succeed, had been put into a position that no human being should ever be put into: being forced to literally consume their fellow man.  
  
Crawford waited until the young man had wiped his bowl clean with a piece of bread and sat licking his fingers before he spoke again.  
  
"But what if McNally doesn't have any contact with Lecter?" Crawford asked. "Then your plan is shit."  
  
"Not necessarily," Cartwright replied and gulped at his coffee again. "We could still use Starling to our advantage."  
  
"What do you and Bexter have in mind for her then?"  
  
Cartwright looked at him. "After reading the content of the tapes recorded by Dr. Chilton of Agent Starling and Dr. Lecter published by The Tattler a little while back it's obvious to everyone that Lecter had a thing for her and she almost seemed to have a thing for him.."  
  
"Now just a minute," Crawford interrupted but was silenced by Cartwright's upraised hand.  
  
"Sir I'm not here to debate Starling's feelings for Hannibal Lecter. Please hear me out," he paused and Crawford nodded briefly. "It seems perfectly plausible to many of the higher ups at the Bureau that Agent Starling knows more about Lecter than she has let on. It's possible that she might even know his current whereabouts."  
  
"Oh come on," Crawford protested in disgust. "Starling is one of the most sincere agents I've come across in a long time, Cartwright. She is completely committed to the Bureau. There's no way in hell she'd hide relevant information about any escaped convict, let alone Hannibal Lecter."  
  
Cartwright raised one eyebrow cockily. "And you're certain of that sir?"  
  
Crawford was silent. He stared at his coffee mug, his lunch still untouched before him and mused. Hadn't he had similar thoughts yesterday? Hadn't he admitted to himself that he thought in some unthinkable, visceral way through their interactions together that Clarice had come to belong to Lecter?  
  
Crawford sighed. This was painful for him to admit but maybe because of his unacknowledged infatuation with Clarice he had overlooked this romanticized idea that Clarice had feelings for the monster; certainly it was the popular belief currently held not only within the media but within the Bureau itself. Maybe if he cooperated with Bexter's plan and coerced Clarice into becoming "friendly" with McNally and the ending result was Lecter's capture, maybe, just maybe through his incarceration Clarice would come to lose her school girl crush on Lecter; then and only then could Crawford's own redemption for having used Clarice Starling as a pawn begin. Still the thought of sending Clarice into a cannibal cult where the leader had a "thing" for her...  
  
"I don't know," Crawford sighed. "I don't like the idea of sending her into a cannibal cult alone."  
  
"She won't be alone," Cartwright protested softly. "I'll be there. Of course she won't know I'm an agent but I'll look out for her. And don't worry, I won't let anyone harm a hair on Clarice Starling's head. I promise."  
  
'Unless of course there's something good in it for me,' Cartwright thought smugly.  
  
Crawford debated for a moment before nodding his head slightly. Cartwright watched Crawford carefully and smiled slightly when he saw the older man nod. They had him. He gestured to the man's untouched bowl of chili.  
  
"Are you gonna eat that?"  
  
To be continued. Please review.  
  
Thanks to Shattered Mug, Ducki, Clariz, Kurt, Morbid, and Saavik for your great reviews! 


	4. The Prophets

**All the**** King's Horses**

**_Chapter Four: The Prophets_**

Buenos Aires reminded Dr. Lecter of Paris. The many plazas held a certain antique charm that was authentic to Argentina. Although he had planned to travel sooner, he found himself in no rush to abandon the Spanish city.  It would have been preferable to make a direct exit to Rome after Memphis, and then eventually on to Florence, but that time would come soon enough, he was happy the way things had turned out. At least this way he was closer to the US, where certain things were seemingly holding him back from leaving for good. 

It was early morning; the sun a pale splash of light breaking through the blue-grey sky. Dr. Lecter strode purposefully along the wide pavement, nodding at a group of tourists as they hurried by, late for their bus. Downtown Plaza de Mayo was always crowded, no matter how late the hour or ugly the weather. Around the corner, church bells began their hourly symphony; many stoped their business to listen and stand idle in the blessing of a new day. Dr. Lecter is an unholy man; a layman would draw upon that conclusion. Yet, he found the noise appeasing; often he would make his way closer to the cathedral just for the sake of listening. Again his thoughts rolled back to Florence. How he would spend his days at the top of the Duomo, thinking of the beauty of art and the exquisiteness of the Italian culture. He remembered the view as well as he chose to, sometimes he'd sketch, to ensure the precision of his memory. Eight years of being muzzled and locked away in prison gave him ample time to extend his creative abilities, Clarice Starling herself had commented on them.

_"Did you do it from memory, all that detail?" _

What had he said? _Memory_ _is what I have instead of a view. Ah yes, how amusing it had been to play with her, the young lion cub clueless to her own strength. But she wasn't clueless now. Oh no, he imagined her as the top fighter amongst a vicious pride. Young and ambitious transformed to experienced and cynical; Clarice Starling was the one thing that kept him tied close to the US. It was disconcerting; he was drawn to her and near-powerless to deny it._

By the time he reached the cathedral, most of the churchgoers had made their exist. Dr. Lecter's café of choice was situated on the corner opposing the divine site. Ironic, perhaps, but he'd always enjoyed watching the adulterous lover or the repenting teen weave their way through the snap-happy tourist to the confessional. Faith amused him; its destructed form even more so. 

He sat at a brass table setting beside the sidewalk, his usual spot, far enough out of sight from most and close enough to pry into the lives of the people walking past. Hannibal Lecter was living the life of a free man and loved every moment of it. The most insignificant things were what he had missed: the sound of leaves mingling with the wind, the scent of rain pooling on cement, the aspects of human reality that only a once captive soul would recognise as essential to living. He'd never known free, adult life outside the boundaries of high-class and style; several international bank accounts registered under multiple aliases ensured that his funds never ran dry.

Although he could afford to entertain himself until the day he died, he could not ignore the void he felt in his own company. He was lonely. It was not a case of self-pity, rather the annoyance at the constricting avenues his past choices had left open to him. He could count on one hand the number of people who really _knew_ him and wouldn't attempt to call the authorities. That number grew even smaller when he considered those people that were alive. Barney was an odd fellow, he feared Dr. Lecter's capability, but was not afraid of his company. Like a loin's keeper, grooming and entertaining the animal, but walking into the enclosures everyday knowing that it might indeed be their last. Dr. Lecter knew that Barney would not turn him in, whether he was afraid, or his civilities were stronger than he'd first thought, he would not be any trouble. There was also the lovely Agent Starling. She knew who he was, the murderer, the cannibal, the monster, but she had never been afraid. Silly of her perhaps, but he was unsure just how grounded her loyalties remained. He's heard nothing in the papers of his letter to her. The F.B.I had covered their tracks well, or she hadn't turned it in; he hoped for the latter.

_Perhaps I'll have to break my word, just this once_. He thought as he turned his check to the warmth of the morning sun; a glimmer of maroon circling behind his expensive sunshades.  He'd call on her one last time, to see how her career and perhaps her private life were coming along. The mere thought of her made the small hairs on the back of his neck stand, he wondered why, but then suppressed the answer. He didn't want to know.

_Yes, my little Starling, it's time we saw our stars from the same angle._

*~*~*

Clarice Starling returned to her cubicle after lunch to find an unassuming brown package on her desk.  She furrowed her brow, wondering who it was from.  As far as she knew she was not expecting anything from anyone.  She returned her small black purse to her desk drawer, placed her drink cup on top of her desk, and peered at the return address on the box.  

_Chelan, __Washington__?_ Clarice mused.  _Who the hell do I know in __Washington__?_

There was no sender's name on the box, only the return address.  Clarice puzzled over it a moment more but decided it was probably safe having gone through the Bureau's mail room.  After the recent events surrounding the capture of the notorious unabomber, the FBI had implemented strict new mail scanning policies.  She opened the top drawer of her desk and pulled out her letter opener.  She carefully cut through the tape over the top of the box and pulled the flaps open.  

The first thing that struck Clarice was the odor that wafted from the box.  A noxious, gut-wrenching smell of decaying flesh met her nostrils and her gorge rose, threatening to lose the lunch that she had just consumed.  Clarice took a few steps backward and gasped for air.  Once her stomach was calmed, she grabbed the box, held it out away from her and headed for the stairs that would take her out of the basement and to the ground floor.

Clarice bounded up the stairs, dashed through the door to the ground level and hurried for the door leading outside.  She rushed through the outside door and placed the box on the ground.  Once outside, she took huge gulps of air to rid her nostrils of the odor.  Clarice paced back and forth in front of the box for a moment, a million questions and thoughts running through her mind.  

The smell of rotting flesh worried her.  She was afraid it was a gift from the man she tried everyday to not think about and was usually unsuccessful.  The man who had seen things in her that she hated to even acknowledge to herself, the man she had looked upon without fear, the man who had touched her very soul with his words and eyes.  That man being Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

_Come on, Clarice_ she chided herself.  _You gotta get this over with.  Suck it up, girl and do it._

Clarice sighed, squatted down, and gingerly pulled open the box once more.  It was stuffed with bubble wrap and she pulled that out carefully.  She peered inside and shuddered inwardly at what she saw.  She recognized the perpetrator of the stench as being a heart.  Clarice's own heart skipped a beat when she thought that it might be human, it was certainly the right size.  It was nestled in Styrofoam to keep it from sliding around the box and underneath the Styrofoam was more bubble wrap.

"Fuck me," Clarice whispered despondently as she gazed at the organ.  

Then she spotted a small stationary envelope tucked into the side of the box, well away from the heart.  She pulled it out, and sat down on the grass a bit away from the box so she would not have to smell the rotting heart.  She tore it open carefully and pulled out lovely violet stationary paper.  Relief flooded her when she did not recognize the handwriting, it was not Dr. Lecter's.

_Dear Agent Clarice Starling,_

_For several years I have followed your career with great interest.  You're rather intriguing, I must say.  Because of my interest, I have attempted to learn as much as I possibly could about you.  _

"Fuck me," Clarice whispered again.  "Dammit, why me?"

_The fact that you conversed with a known cannibal and did so seemingly without fear is a remarkable feat.  Your conversations with Dr. Lecter fascinated me as they did the public at large.  I however, have a bit more reason for my piqued interest in you than the general public does; I am a former patient of Dr. Lecter's.  _

_I'm curious, Agent Starling, have you given up on Christ?  I have learned that after your father's death, you were orphaned and eventually came to reside at a Lutheran Orphanage_.  _Did you ever wear a crucifix, Agent Starling?  What happened to it, I wonder?  And what happened to Jesus' place in your life?  You are seemingly lost Agent Starling and in need of rescuing.  _

"Fuck me," a third time.

_You have lost your faith and need to come to Christ once more.  He will take away all your pain, He will take away all your fear, and He will take away all your doubt.  Join me, Agent Starling and I will help you regain your faith in yourself and mankind.  _

_I sincerely hope that my 'gift' did not frighten you.  I sent it merely as a form of symbolism.  It is a lamb's heart, Agent Starling.  Jesus Christ is often referred to as the 'lamb of God' and it is only through partaking of the life of Christ that we can be saved.  Christ himself said: 'Verily, verily, I say unto you, Except ye eat the flesh of the Son of God, and drink his blood, ye have no life in you.  Whoso eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day.  For my flesh is meat indeed, and my blood is drink indeed.  He that eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, dwelleth in me, and I in him (John __6:53__-56).'  _

_So you see, Agent Starling, only through the body and blood of Christ can we gain life eternal.  I sincerely hope you will join me Agent Starling.  Join me so that you can be saved at the last day.  I look forward to your response._

_Your Humble Servant,_

_Father Shane McNally_

"Shit," Clarice muttered under her breath when she had finished reading the letter.

She sat there on the grass for a moment, staring unseeing at the ground as thoughts swirled through her fevered mind.  

_A former patient of Dr. Lecter's has sent me a lamb's heart,_ she thought.  _I wonder if he knows the significance to me of the lambs.  Only Dr. Lecter knows about it.  If this guy McNally does know, then that means he has contact with Dr. Lecter._

Clarice's eyes widened at the thought and she re-read the letter. 

McNally hadn't actually make a reference to screaming lambs but the whole Christ is the lamb of God thing is quite a coincidence. Clarice's brow furrowed and she knew she had to take the package and the note to Jack Crawford.  She stood up, brushed off the seat of her khakis, set the bubble wrap back in the box, and cautiously picked the box up once again holding it away from her body.  She made her way back into the building and back down the stairwell to the basement of Quantico.  

Clarice Starling had indeed received her wish to come to work for Jack Crawford and his Behavioral Science pupils.  Crawford had fought intensely with the bureaucracy of the Bureau to get her onto his team once she had graduated from the academy.  Traditionally, rookies have to work hard to earn their place in a particular department by doing "grunt work" such as surveillance, translating documents, and back up at raids.  But Crawford had seen a talent for profiling in Starling; a talent he had not seen as strongly since Will Graham and he had fought long and hard for her.

Often times, Clarice found herself wondering if Crawford had fought so hard in part because he felt guilty for having thrown her to the wolves so to speak as a trainee when he sent her in to question Hannibal "the Cannibal" Lecter which led to her subsequent solo gun battle with Jame Gumb.  Clarice had never questioned her superior on his motives for working so hard to have her join Behavioral Science but a part of her would always wonder if she truly belonged here because of her abilities or if it was merely a token from Crawford to help allay his guilt.

Clarice reached the Chief's office and knocked sharply on his door.

"Come," she heard his gruff voice call.

She opened the door and walked through, still keeping the box at arm's length.  Jack Crawford looked up and cocked one eyebrow at the box in her hand.

"Good afternoon, sir," Clarice said.

"Starling," Crawford nodded his head once in acknowledgement.  "What's in the box?"

At that moment, the malodorous scent from the box reached Crawford's nostrils and they flared.

"What the hell?"  He asked, voice slightly raised.  "What _is that?"_

Clarice put the forefinger of her free hand up under her nose in attempts to block the putrid stench as she spoke.  "I received a package from a man who claims to be a former patient of Dr. Lecter's, sir."  She paused and watched as Crawford moved to open his window, fanning his hand in front of his face.  "It's a lamb's heart."

Crawford's steady gaze swung back to her.  "A _lamb's_ heart?  Why did he send you a lamb's heart?"

"I believe he meant it to be symbolic of Christ's heart, sir.  He refers to Christ as 'the lamb of God' in his letter."  Clarice set the box down on a chair and quickly removed the letter, re-closing the flaps of the box immediately.  She held it out to Crawford.

He took the letter and sat down in his chair, scanning it quickly.  Clarice moved closer to the window in attempts to catch some of the fresher air.

Crawford sighed heavily when he finished reading the letter and sat back in his chair.  He took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes.  He put them back on and looked levelly at Clarice.

"So what do you think Starling?"  He asked perfunctory.  "How do we proceed?"

Clarice took a deep breath, caught a whiff of the lamb's heart, and gagged.  She shook her head and ran her hand through her chestnut hair to recompose herself.  "First we need to check out everything we can on this McNally character.  We need to affirm his statement that he is indeed a former patient of Lecter's.  Then we need to find out everything we can about his background and who he is.  He signed the letter 'Father' and the religious connotations point to him as being some type of spiritual leader," she paused.  "We could even contact the Seattle field office and request they tail him for awhile."

"You're on the right track with the initial ideas," Crawford nodded.  "But what's your rationale on the tail?"

"To see where and how he's living, see if he's on the up and up."

"I don't know Clarice," Crawford paused.  "I'm afraid he'd pick up on a tail and it would scare him off.  He contacted you directly.  He's interested in you."  Crawford paused again and sighed slightly.  "Assuming he is a former patient of Lecter's, maybe we can use that to our advantage.  Maybe he's still got connections with Lecter.  So here's what we're gonna do:  you're going to send a letter back to this McNally and seem interested in his offer to bring you to Christ.  Make it good, Starling, you've lost your faith, you need help, just like he said to you.  In the meantime, we're going to research this guy and find out everything we can.  We'll wait until you get word back from him to see where we go from there."

"Yes sir," Clarice nodded.

Crawford coughed harshly, the stench causing him to gag.  "Now get that fucking thing out of my office, Starling."

_Tell us what you think!!_

_~H&I~_


End file.
